Cliff Ryder - Black Widow

"Ilyas wasn't one to walk away from challenges. Especially not difficult ones," she said.

"I see. Did your brother ever talk to you about his assignments?"

"No." That wasn't exactly true, because they had shared information about field contacts and assets.

"You don't know the kind of work your brother did for MI-6?" the woman asked.

"It was suggested, forcibly, that we not discuss our missions."

"You don't usually find operatives from the same family."

"For some reason, we were an exception."

"The reason isn't hard to figure out," the woman said. "You and your brother scored high on the entrance exams. And there's the culture. Neither of you is far removed from Eastern Europe."

"My brother died before Mustafa bought those weapons," Ajza said. "That was a year ago. Was Taburova trying to buy weapons then?"

"We don't know. We stumbled onto the same information you have at the same time you did."

Ajza thought about the other team that had been on-site in Istanbul. If — and that was a big if — this woman was part of that group, they were well funded.

Or was she part of a mercenary force hoping to score the weapons, drugs or cash that changed hands? That was always possible when you were dealing in the shadows.

"You already know Taburova wanted the weapons," Ajza said. "If my brother was sent over there to find that out, then that has been accomplished."

"Your brother was sent over there to monitor Taburova."

"What makes the man so important?"

"He's in the business of coercing shahidka to strike against the Russians."

Ajza frowned.

The woman tapped the high-tech sheet of plastic. Immediately several images of women dressed in black robes, heads covered and faces veiled, filled the screen. In addition to the women, there were also scenes of destruction, all the result of high-powered blasts.

In the last picture, Moscow uniformed police stood over the body of a woman who'd been shot in the temple. Her coat hung open and revealed the blocks of plastic explosives strapped to her body.

Ajza knew about the shahidka. They'd been given the name — the Black Widows — because their husbands had been killed fighting the Russian army. Some said that the shahidka were cursed, born into trouble and bad luck, and death to any man who took their hands in marriage.

Of course, there was no way anyone could tell if a woman was a shahidka. There was no test, and they weren't marked by God until after they'd lost their husbands.

Women in Chechnya married young, sometimes as early as thirteen or fourteen. The men they married weren't much older, and they became soldiers the instant someone thrust a rifle into their hands.

Unable to afford mercy to the young troops, the Russian military often killed them. Those deaths doomed the women, as well. When a woman's husband died, she became the property of her husband's family. She could be separated from her children, have her house taken and be left out on the street or sold to another.

Or she could end up as a Black Widow.

"The question is," the woman said, "what would a man in control of human bombs need with an arsenal? Especially an arsenal of American weapons?"

Ajza crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair. "You want me to find out what Taburova planned to do with a shipment of American weapons?"

The woman across the table sipped her tea and didn't bat an eye. "Plans. What he plans to do with them."

"Those weapons are history." Ajza took a little pride in that.

"If Taburova wants American weapons, he'll find them. Other people can get them for him."

"The task is impossible."

"In what respect?"

"My work," Ajza still refused to admit she worked for MI-6, "prevents me from leaving at this time."

"That can be attended to," the woman said.

Ajza arched an eyebrow doubtfully.

"You don't believe me?" the woman asked.

Before Ajza could retort, her cell phone rang. She checked the number, discovered she didn't recognize it and started to return the phone to her purse.

"You need to answer that," the woman said. "That will be your supervisor advising you that you've been given indefinite paid leave."

Ajza still ignored the phone despite the claim.

The woman tapped the sheet lying on the table again. This time when the picture reformed, it showed George Crayle, her supervisor, standing on a street corner at a pay phone. Crayle was in his fifties, dapper and silver-haired. As always, he wore a dark suit.

In disbelief, Ajza answered her phone. "Hello."

"Do you recognize my voice?" Crayle asked.

"Should I?" Ajza countered. The first rule in the agency was to deny involvement.

"Yes." Crayle sounded irritated. "I don't have time to play games. These people have had me cooling my heels for the past hour, but they want their end of things done yesterday. I'd have been much better off working my caseload."

Ajza didn't know what to say. They had passwords in place to let one another know if they'd been compromised. George Crayle used none of them.

"Pick a number," the woman suggested, "between one and five. Give him the number."

"I'm thinking of the number four," Ajza whispered.

Incredibly, Crayle held up four fingers. "They wanted you to do this," he said, "to see that this is in real time. Do you believe it's me?"

"Yes." Ajza looked at the woman, who was calmly pouring herself another cup of tea from the pot that had been left with them.

"I don't know what you've stepped in, but it's certainly deep enough," Crayle said. "I've been given instructions to let you know that the choice you make is entirely up to you. Neither I nor the department will try to influence you in any way. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Ajza said, knowing that she understood only that whoever the woman represented, they were capable of a lot. "Do you know the woman I'm with?"

The woman didn't try to stop Ajza from asking questions.

"No," Crayle said. "Nor do I want to know." Crayle shifted around nervously. Ajza knew he was still trying to find the person shooting video of him. She didn't blame him for feeling uneasy. "I was told to give you this message. I have. My part in this is done. Good luck with whatever it is you're involved in."

The connection went dead at the same time that Crayle hung up the phone on the screen. A moment later the screen went dark.

Across the table and tea service, the woman folded her hands and waited.

After a moment Ajza put her phone away. She felt as though the earth had tilted on its axis. "Who are you people?" she asked hoarsely.

"We're the good guys," the woman responded. "And we'd like you to perform this mission for us."

"And if I choose not to?"

"Then you'll get a call from Mr. Crayle in the next day or so and go back to work as if all this had never happened."

"You went to a lot of trouble to get a refusal from me."

"Is that your answer?"

"What if it was?"

"Then I'd thank you for your time, excuse myself and go find someone else."

"Who?"

The woman shook her head. "I can't tell you what I don't know. Also, you wouldn't be privy to that information."

"You knew to come after me."

"Yes, but you're not the only recourse we have, Ms. Manaev. You are our first choice."

"Am I supposed to be flattered?"

"You can feel that way if you like, but that's not what I intended." The woman paused. "You showed a real flair for thinking on your feet in stressful situations while in Istanbul. We believe you have a lot of potential. However, this mission is extremely delicate. You could easily get killed. We want you to understand that going in."

"If Taburova concerns you, he could simply be terminated," Ajza said.